"
A man who has liberated himself frof!
A man who has liberated himself frof!
Musil - Man Without Qualities - v1
Tuzzi's problem was that he had no clue to help him solve this mystery, because in all his official experience he had never come across a person like Arnheim.
And since Diotima had announced ~at she intended to give Arn- heim a leading position in the Parallel Campaign, and had com- plained about His Grace's resistance to this idea, Tuzzi was seriously concerned. He did not think much of either the Parallel Campaign or Count Leinsdorf, but he regarded his wife's idea as politically so amazingly tactless that he was overcome with the feeling that all these years of patient husbandly training such as he flattered himself to have given her had collapsed like a house of cards. He had in fact used exacdy this figure of speech in thinking about it, even though Section Chief Tuzzi never indulged himself in figures of speech be- cause they are too literary and, socially, smell of poor taste; but this time he felt quite shaken by it.
Hqwever, Diotima strengthened her position again as things went on by her stubbornness, She had become gently aggressive and spoke of a new kind of person who could no longer passively leave the spiritual responsibility for the course of world events to the pro- fessional leaders. Then she spoke of feminine tact that could some- times be a visionary gift perhaps capable of penetrating distances beyond the daily routine of professionals. Finally, she said that Arn- heim was a European, a thinker known throughout Europe, that the conduct of affairs of state in Europe Was not sufficiendy European, not spiritual enough, and that the world would find no peace until it was as permeated by a universally Austrian spirit as the ancient Aus- trian culture that embraced all the peoples, with their different lan- guages, within the borders of the monarchy.
She had never before dared to stand up so resolutely against her husband's authority, but Section Chief Tuzzi was temporarily reas-
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sured by it, because he had never regarded his wife's strivings as higher in significance than problems with her dressmaker, was de- lighted when she was admired by others, and could now take a less alarming view of her current goings-on, much as if a woman who loved color had for once chosen too gaudy a ribbon. So he confined himself to going over again, with grave courtesy, all the reasons why in a man's world decisions on Austrian affairs could not be publicly entrusted to a Prussian, even though he could see that there might be some advantage in being on friendly terms with a man in so unique a position. He assured Diotima that she would be misunder- standing his scruples if she inferred from them that he was not pleased to see Arnheim in her company as often as possible. Privately he hoped that this would give him the opportunity, sooner or later, to set a trap for the outsider.
Only when Tuzzi had to stand by and see Arnheim sweeping from success to success everywhere did he come back to the idea that she seemed overinvolved with this man-only to fmd again that she did not respect his wishes as of old but argued with him and declared his misgivings chimerical. He decided as a man not to struggle against the dialectics of a woman but to bide his time and wait for circum- stances to prove him right in the end. But then something happened to give him a powerful incentive.
One night, something like the sound of very distant weeping aroused him from his sleep. It barely disturbed him at first; he si. mply did not understand what it was. But from time to time the spiritual distance lessened by a jump, until suddenly the menacing distur- bance was quite close to his ears, and he started so violently out ofhis sleep that he sat bolt upright in bed. Diotima lay on her side facing away from him and gave no sign ofbeing awake, but something made him feel that she was. He whispered her name once, then again, and tenderly tried to tum her white shoulder to him. But as he turned her around and her face rose above her shoulder in the dark, it looked at him angrily, expressed defiance, and had been crying. Un- fortunately, Tuzzi's sound sleep was reclaiming him and dragging him relentlessly back into his pillows, while Diotima's face hovered above him as a painfully bright distortion he could make no sense of. "Whatsamatter? " he muttered in the soft bass of returning uncon- sciousness, and received a clear, irritable, unwelcome answer that
stamped itself on his ear, fell into his drowsiness, and lay there like a sparkling coin in the water.
"You toss about so much in your sleep, no one can sleep next to you! " Diotima had said harshly and distinctly; his ear had taken it in, but he,had already slipped back into sleep without being able to utter a word in his own defense.
He merely felt that he was the victim of a grave injustice. Quiet, restful sleep was in his opinion one ofa diplomat's chiefvirtues, for it was a condition ofall success. It was a point on which he was acutely sensitive, and Diotima's remark was a serious challenge to his very existence. He realized that something in her had changed. While it never occurred to him even in his sleep to suspect his wife of any tangible infidelity, he never doubted for a moment that the personal discomfort inflicted on him must be connected with Arnheim. He slept on angrily, as it were, till morning and awakened with the finn resolve to find out all he could about this disturbing person.
THE HOUSE OF FISCHEL
Director Fischel ofthe Lloyd Bank was that bank director, or, more properly, managerwith the title ofdirector, who had somehow unac- countably forgotten to acknowledge Count Leinsdorf's invitation and had thereafter not been invited again. And even that first invita- tion he had owed only to the connections of his wife, Clementine. Clementine Fischel's family were old civil service. Her father had been Accountant General, her grandfather had been a senior official in the finance department, and three of her brothers held high posi- tions in various ministries. Twenty-four years ago she had married Leo Fischel, for two reasons: first, because families high in the civil service sometimes have more children than means; but second, for a romantic reason, because compared with the relentlessly thrifty
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tightness of her parental home, banking seemed a liberal-minded, modem profession, and in the nineteenth century a cultivated per- son did not judge another person's value according to. whether he was a Jew or a Catholic; indeed, as matters stood then, she almost felt there was something particularly refined in rising above the crude anti-Semitic prejudice of the common people.
Later the poor woman was destined to see a nationalist spirit well- ing up all over Europe, and with it a surge ofJew-baiting, transform- ing her husband in her very arms, as it were, from a respected free spirit into a corrosive spawn of an alien race. In the beginning she had resisted this transformation with all the indignation of a "mag- nanimous heart," but as the years passed she was worn down by the naively cruel and steadily growing hostility and intimidated by the general prejudice. In time, as 'the differences between herself and her husband gradually became acrimonious-when, for reasons he · would never quite go into, he never rose above the rank of manager and lost all prospects of ever being appointed a bank director-she came to justify to herself, with a shrug, many things that wounded her by remembering that Leo's character was; after all, alien to her own, though toward outsiders she never abandoned the principles of her youth.
Their differences, however, were basically nothing more than a lack of understanding; as in many marriages, a natural misfortune, as it were, surfaced as soon as the couple ceased to be rapturously happy. Ever since Leo's career had hesitantly ground to a halt at what was in effect a stockbroker's desk, Clementine was no longer able to excuse certain of his peculiarities by taking into account that he was not ensconced in the glassy calm of a ministerial office but was sitting at the "roaring loom of time"-and who knows whether she had not married him just on account of this quotation from Goe- · the? His side-whiskers, which, with the pince-nez riding the middle of his nose, had once reminded her of an English lord with mutton- chops, now suggested a stockbroker, and some of his mannerisms of gesture and turns of phrase became positively insufferable to her. At first Clementine tried to improve her husband, but she ran into terri- ble snags as it became apparent that nowhere in the world was there a standard by which to judge whether muttonchop whiskers rightly
suggested a lord or a broker, or at what point on the nose a pince- nez, combined with a wave of the hand, expressed enthusiasm o·r cynicism. Besides, Leo Fischel was simply not the man to let himself be improved. He dismissed as social tomfoolery the faultfinding that tried to tum him into the Christian-Teutonic beau ideal of a high ministry official, and rejected her ~guments as unworthy of a rea- sonable man; for the more his wife took offense at certain details, the more he stressed the great guidelines of reason. And so the Fischel household was gradually transformed into the battleground of two contending philosophies of life.
Director Fischel of the Uoyd Bank enjoyed philosophizing, but only for ten minutes a day. He enjoyed thinking that human life had a solid rational basis and that it paid off intellectually; he imagined this on the pattern ofthe harmonious hierarchy ofa great bank and noted with satisfaction the daily signs of progress he read about in the papers.
This faith in the immutable guidelines of reason and progress had for a long time· enabled him to dismiss his wife's carpings with a shrug or a cutting retort. But since misfortune had decreed that in the course of this marriage the mood of the times would shift away from the old principles ofliberalism that had favored Leo Fischel- the great guiding ideals of tolerance, the dignity of man, and free trade-and reason and progress in the Western world would be dis- placed by racial theories and street slogans, he eould not remain un- touched by it either. He started by flatly denying the existence of these changes, just as Count Leinsdorf was accustomed to deny the existence of certain "unpleasant political manifestations" and waited for them to disappear of their own accord. Such waiting is the first, almost imperceptible degree of the torture of exasperation that life inflicts on men of principle. The second degree is usually called, and was therefore also called by Fischel, "poison. " This poison is the ap- pearance, drop by drop, of new views on morals, art, politics, the family, newspapers, books, and social life, already accompanied by the helpless feeling that there is no turning back and by indignant denials, which cannot avoid a certain acknowledgment of the thing denied. Nor was Director Fischel spared the third and final degree, when the isolated showers and sprinklings of the New tum into a
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steady, drenching rain. In time this becomes one ofthe most horrible torments that a man who has only ten minutes a day to spare for phi- losophy can experience.
Leo came to know on how many points people can have differ- ences of opinion. The. drive to be right, a need almost synonymous with human dignity, began to. celebrate excesses in the Fischel household. For millennia this drive has produced thousands of admi- rable philosophies, works ofart, books, deeds, and partisan alliances, and when this admirable, but also fanatical and monstrous, innate human drive has to make do with ten minutes on practical philoso- phy or a debate on the basic principles of the household, it cannot fail to burst, like a drop of molten lead, into innumerable sharp splin- ters that inflict the most painful wounds. It burst over the question of whether a maid was to be given notice or not, and whether tooth- picks belonged on the table or not; but whatever made it burst, it had the capacity to reconstitute itself immediately into two infinitely de- tailed opposing vi·ews of the world.
This was all very well by day, since Director Fischel was in his of- fice then, but at night he was only human, and this gravely worsened the relations between him and Clementine. Things today are so com- plicated that a person can really keep fully informed only in one field, basically, which in . his case was stocks and bonds, and so he was in- clined at night to be of a generally yielding disposition. Clementine, on the contrary, remained sharp and unyielding, raised as she had been in a strict civil-service household with its constant emphasis on duty. Besides, her class consciousness would not permit them sepa- rate bedrooms, "-'hich would have made their already inadequate apartment even smaller: But a shared bedroom, with the lights out, puts a man in the situation of an actor having to play before an invisi- ble house the rewarding but by now worn-out role of a hero imper- sonating a growling lion. For years now, Leo's dark auditorium had not let slip the faintest hint of applause, nor yet the smallest sign of disapproval, and this was surely enough to shatter the strongest nerves. In the morning at breakfast, which the couple took together in accordance with time-honored tradition, Clementine was stiff as a frozen corpse and Leo twitchy with nerves. Even their daughter, Gerda, noticed something of this every time and had come to imag-
ine married life with dread and bitter loathing, as a catfight in the dark of night.
Gerda was twenty-three, and the favorite bone of contention of both her progenitors. Leo Fischel thought it was time to start think- ing of a good match for her. But Gerda said, "You're old-fashioned, Papa," and had chosen her friends in a swarm of Christian national- ists her own age, none of whom offered the slightest prospect of being able to support a wife; instead, they despised capitalism and maintained that no Jew had yet proved capable of serving as a great symbol of humanity. Leo Fischel called them anti-Semitic louts and would have forbidden them the house, but Gerda said, "You don't understand, Papa, they only mean it symbolically"; and nervous and anemic as she was, Gerda immediately got upset if she was not han- dled with care. So Fischel suffered her friends: society, as once Odysseus had had to suffer Penelope's suitors in his house, for Gerda was the ray of sunshine in his life. But he did not suffer in silence, because that was not in his nature. He thought he knew all about morality and great ideas himself, and held forth on them at every opportunity in order to exert a good influence on Gerda. Every time he did so Gerda answered: "Yes, Papa, you would be absolutely right if the whole thing did not have to be looked at from a wholly different point of view from the one you still cling to! "
What did Clementine do when Gerda talked like this? Not a thing. She made a resigned face and kept her own counsel, but Leo could be sure that behind his back she would be on Gerda's side-as if she knew what symbols wereJ Leo Fischel had always had every reason to assume that his good Jewish head was superior to his wife's, and noth- ing outraged him so much as to observe that she was using Gerda's craziness to her own advantage. Why should he, of all people, sud- denly no longer be capable of keeping up with the times? They were in this together! Then he remembered last night. This was no longer sniping at a man's self-esteem, it was digging it up by the roots! At night a man has only his nightshirt on, and right underneath that is his character. No expertise, no professional shrewdness, can protect him. Here a man stakes his whole life, nothing less. So what did it mean that Clementine, whenever the conversation turned to Christian- Germanic ideaS, made a face as if he were fresh from the jungle?
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Now, man is a being who can stand mistrust as little as tissue paper can the rain. Since Clementine had ceased to find Leo attractive she found him unbearable, and since Leo began to feel that Clementine doubted him he saw at every tum a conspiracy in his own house. At the same time Clementine and Leo deluded themselves, like every- one whose mind has been formed by the prevailing customs and lit- erature, that their passions, . characters, destinies, and actions made them dependent on each other. In truth, ofcourse, more than halfof life consists not of actions but of formulas, of opinions we make our own, of on-the-one-hands and on-the-other-hands, and of all the piled-up impersonality of everything one has heard and knowS. The fate of this husband and wife depended mostly on a murky, persist- ent, confused structuring of ideas that were not even their own but belonged to public opinion and shifted with it, without their being able to defend themselves against it. Compared with this depen- dence their personal dependence on each other represented only a tiny fraction, a wildly overestimated residue. And while they deluded themselves that they had their own private lives, and questioned each other's character and will, the agonizing difficulty lay in the unreality of their conflict, which they covered with every possible peevishness.
It was Leo Fischel's bad luck that he neither played cards nor found pleasure in taking out pretty girls, but, worn out by his work, suffered from a marked craving for family life, whereas his wife, who had nothing to do day or night but be the bosom ofthe family, was no longer subject to any 'romantic illusions about that. There were times when Leo Fischel felt he was suffocating, attacked by nothing he could put his finger ~nfrom all sides at once. He was a hardworking small cell in the body politic, doing its duty with a will, but receiving from all sides poisoned juices. And so, though it far exceeded his need for philosophy, the aging man, left in the lurch by his life-part- ner and seeing no grounds for abandoning the rational fashion of his youth, began to sense the profound emptiness of emotional life, its formlessness which is eternally changing its forms, its slow but re- lentless overturning that pulls everything with it.
It was on one such morning, his head occupied with family prob- lems, that Fischel had forgotten to answer His Grace's invitation, and on many subsequent mornings he had to listen to accounts of what
was going on in Section Chief Tuzzi's wife's circle, which made it appear most regrettable not to have seized such a chance for Gerda to enter the best society. Fischel's conscience was none too clear, since his own general manager and the chief executive of the Na- tional Bank attended those gatherings, but as everyone knows, a man will defend himself most violently against reproaches the more strongly he is tom between guilt and innocence. But every time Fischel tried, with all the superiority of a practical man, to make fun of these patriotic goings-on, he was advised that a financier who was abreast of the times, such as Paul Amheim, evidently thought other- wise. It was amazing how much C. lementine, and even Gerda-who normally, of course, took the opposite line from her mother's-had found out about this man, and as the stock exchange, too, was buzz- ing with all sorts of stories about him, Fischel felt driven onto the defensive, unable to keep up with them or to come out and say about so eminent a businessman that he was not to be taken seriously.
But when Fischel was on the defensive he adopted a suitably bear- ish stance, in this instance keeping up an impenetrable silence in the face of all allusions to the Tuzzi household, Amheim, the Parallel Campaign, and his own failure. He tried to find out where and how long Amheim was staying in town, and furtively hoped for an event that would at one blow expose the hollow pretense of it all and bring down his family's high rating of those stocks with a crash.
52
SECTION C:EUEF TUZZI FINDS A BLIND SPOT IN THE WORKINGS OF HIS MINISTRY
After he had decided to find out all about Amheim, Section Chief Tuzzi soon made the satisfying discovery of a large blind spot in the workings of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and of the Imperial House, which were his special concern: it had not been designed to
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deal with persons like Amheim. Other than memoirs, Tuzzi read no literary works but the Bible, Homer, and Rosegger, priding himself that this saved him from dissipating his mental forces. But that not a single man was to be found in the whole Foreign Ministry who had read a book of Aniheim's he recognized as an error.
Section Chief Tuzzi had the right to summon the heads of other departments to his own office, but on the morning after that night disturbed by tears, he had gone himself to see the chief of the press department, impelled by a feeling that the occasion which led him to seek a discussion did not warrant full official status. The chief of the press department admited Section ChiefTuzzi for knowing so many personal details about Amheim, admitted that he, too, had fre- quently heard the name mentioned, but promptly warded off any in- timation that the man . could possibly be found in any of his departmental files, since Arnheim had not, as far as he recalled, ever been the object of official consideration and since the processing of news material could not, of course, be extended to cover the public expressions of private individuals. Tuzzi conceded that this was as it should be, but pointed out that these days the borderline between the official and the private status of persons and events was not al- ways clearly definable, which the chief of the press department found a most acute observation, whereupon the two section chiefs agreed that they had before them a most intrigui~g flaw in the system.
It was clearly a morning on which Europe was enjoying a little peace and quiet, because the two officials sent for the head clerk and instructed him to start a file headedAmheim, Dr. Paul, though there was as yet nothing in it. Mter the head clerk came the chiefflle clerk and the clerk in charge ofnews clippings, both ofwhom were able to state on the spot, all aglow with efficiency, that no Amheim was to be found in their files. Finally the press secretaries were called in, whose job it was to go through the newspapers every day and lay their clippings before the various chiefs. When asked about Amheim they all made serious faces, and testified that he was indeed men- tioned often and most favorably in the·papers they read, but that they could not say what his writings were about because his activities-as they could immediately affirm-were not included within the sphere of their official concern with the news. Thus the flawless functi_oning
of the Foreign Ministry's apparatus was demonstrated whenever one touched a button, and all these officials left the room with the sense of having made the best show of their reliability.
"It's exactly as I told you;" the chief of the press department said to Tuzzi with satisfaction. "Nobody know~ a thing. "
The two section chiefs had listened to the reports with smiling dig- nity, sitting-as,if embalmed forever by their surroundings, like flies in amber-in luxurious leather armchairs, on the deep-pile red car- pet, framed by the tall windows draped in dark red in that white-and-· gold room dating from the time of Maria Theresa, and acknowledged that the blind spot in the system, which they now had at least spotted, would be hard to cure.
"In this department," its chiefsaid with satisfaction, "we deal with every public utterance, but a borderline must be drawn somewhere around the term 'public. ' I can guarantee that every 'Hear, hear' shouted by some deputy at one of this year's regional council meet- ings can be located in our files within ten minutes, and every such interjection made in the last ten years, as far as it concerns foreign affairs, within h~fan hour at most. The same applies to every politi- cal newspaper article; my men do painstaking work. :Sut those are tangible, so to speak responsible, utterances, in connection with well-defined conditions, powers, and concepts. However, if I have to decide, from a purely professional point of view, under which head- ing the clerk who compiles the excerpts or the catalog is to file some personal effusion by-let's see, whom could we use as an example? "
Tuzzi helpfully gave him the name of one of the latest writers to frequent Diotima's salon. The chief of the press department glanced up at him uneasily, as if he were hard of hearing.
"All right, him, let's say-but where do we draw the line between what to note and what to pass over? We've even had political poems. Does this mean that every versifier-or perhaps only authors who write for our Burgtheater . . . ? "
Both laughed.
"How is one to deduce what these people mean, even if they were Schiller and Goethe? Of course there's always a higher meaning in it, but for all practical purposes they contradict themselves with every second word they say. "
By this time the two men had become aware that they were run-
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ning the risk of becoming involved in something "impossible," a word with the added nuance of something socially ridiculous, to which diplomats are so keenly sensitive. ·
"Ofcourse we can't bring a whole staffofliterary and drama critics into the ministry," Tuzzi said with a smile, "but on the other hand, once we've become aware of it, there's no denying that such people are not without influence on world opinion and consequently do af- fect·politics. "
"It isn't done in any Foreign Office in the world," the press chief said helpfully.
"Agreed. But drop after drop will hollow out stone. " Tuzzi found that this proverb sexved nicely to express a certain danger. "Shouldn't we try to set up a way of handling this? "
"I don't know. I have qualms," the other section chief said.
"So do I, of course! " Tuzzi replied. As the conversation neared its end he felt ill at ease, as ifhis tongue were coated, uncertain whether he had been talking nonsense or whether it would turn out after all to be another instance of that perspicacity for which he was celebrated. The press chief was equally undecided, and so they ended by assur- ing each other that they would have another talk on the subject later.
The press chief issued insf? uctions to order Arnheim's complete works for the ministry library, by way of concluding the matter, and Tuzzi went to a political department, where he requested a detailed report on the man Arnheim from the Austrian Embassy in Berlin. This was the only thing left for him to do at the ·moment, and until the report arrived his only source of information about Arnheim was his wife, a source he now felt strongly disinclined to use. He recalled Voltaire's saying that people use words only to hide their thoughts and use thoughts only to justify the wrongs they have done. Cer- tainly, that is what diplomacy had always been. But that a person spoke and wrote as much as Arnheim did, to hide his . real intentions behind words, was something new; it made Tuzzi uneasy, and he would have to get to the bottom of it.
53
MOOSBRUGGER IS MOVED TO ANOTHER PRISON
The killer of a prostitute, Christian Moosbrugger, had been forgot- ten a few days after the newspapers stopped printing the reports of his trial, and the public had turned to other things for excitement. Only a circle of experts still took an interest in him. His lawyer had entered a plea to have the trial invalidated, demanded a new psychi-. atric examination, and taken other steps as well: the execution was indefinitely postponed and Moosbrugger moved to another prison.
The preca. utions with which this was done flattered him: loaded guns, many people, arms and legs in irons. They were paying atten- tion to him, they were afraid of him, and Moosbrugger loved it. When he climbed into the prison van, he glanced around for admira- tion and tried to catch the surprised gaze of the passersby. Cold Wind, blowing down the street, played with his curly hair; the air drained him. Two seconds; then a guard shoved his behind into the van.
Moosbrugger was vain. He did not like to be pushed like that; he was afraid that the . guards would punch him, shout or laugh at him. The fettered giant did not dare to look at any of his escort and slid to the front of the van of his own accord.
But he was not afraid of death. Life is full of things that must be endured, and that certainly hurt more than being hanged, and whether a man has a few years more or less to live really doesn't mat- ter. The passive pride of a man who has been locked up for long stretches would not let him fear his punishment; but in any case, he did not cling to life. What was there in life that he should love? Surely not the spring breeze, or the open road, or the sun? They only make a man tired, hot, and dusty. No one loves life who really knows it. "If I could say to someone," Moosbrugger thought, " 'Yesterday I had some terrific roast pork at the comer restaurant! ' that might be something. " But one cou,ld do without even that. What would have
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pleased him was something that could satisfy his ambition, which had always come up against nothing but stupid insults.
An uneven jolting ran from the wheels through the bench into his body. Behind the bars in the door the cobblestones were running backward; heavy wagons were left behind; at times, men, women, or children stumbled diagonally across the bars; a distant cab was gain- ing on them, growing, coming closer, beginning to spray out life as an anvil throws off sparks; the horses' heads seemed to be about to push through the door; then the clatter of hooves and the soft sound of rubber-tired wheels ran on past behind the wall of the van. Moos- brugger slowly turned his head back to stare again at the ceiling where it met the van's side in front ofhim. The noises outside roared, blared, were stretched like a canvas over which now and then flitted the shadow of something happening. Moosbrugger took the ride as a change, without paying much attention to its meaning. Between two dark, inert stretches in prison a quarter of an hour's opaque, white, foaming time was shooting by. This was how he had always experi- enced his freedom. Not really pretty. "That business about the last meal," he thought, "the prison chaplain," the hangmen, the quarter hour before it's all over, won't be too different. It will bounce along on wheels too; I'll be kept busy all the time·, like now, trying to keep from sliding off this bench at every jolt, and I won't be seeing or hearing much of anything with all those people hopping around me. It's the best thing that can happen: finally I'll get some peace.
"
A man who has liberated himself frof! l wanting to live feels im- mensely superior. Moosbrugger remembered the superintendent who had been his first interrogator at the police station. A real gent, who spoke in a low voice.
"Look here, Mr. Moosbrugger," he had said, "I beseech you: grant me success! " And Moosbrugger had replied, 'Well, ifsuccess means that much to you, let's draw up a statement. "
The judge, later on, was skeptical, but the superintendent had confirmed it in court. "Even if you don't care about relieving your conscience on your own account, please give me the personal satis- faction that you are doing it for my sake. " The superintendent had repeated this before the whole court, even the presiding judge had looked pleased, and Moosbrugger had risen to his feet:
"My deep respect to His Honor the superintendent for making
this statement! " he had loudly proclaimed, then added, with a grace- ful bow: "Although the superintendent's last words to me were W e will probably never see each other again,' it is an honor and a privi- lege to see you, the superintendent, again today. "
A smile of self-approval transformed Moosbrugger's face, and he forgot the guards sitting opposite him, flung to and fro like himselfby the jolting van.
54
IN CONVERSATION WITH WALTER AND CLARISSE, ULRICH TURNS OUT TO BE REACTIONARY
Clarisse said to Ulrich: "Something must be done for Moosbrugger; this murderer is musical! "
Ulrich had finally, on a free afternoon, paid them a visit to make up for the one so fatefully prevented by his arrest.
Clarisse was clutching at his lapel; Walter stood-beside her with a look on his face that was not quite sincere.
'What do you mean, musical? " Ulrich asked with a smile.
Clarisse looked merrily shamefaced. Unintentionally. As ifshe had to clap a tight comic grin on her face to hold back the embarrassment oozing from every pore. She let go of his lapel.
"Oh,'nothing special," she said. "You seem to have become an in- fluential man! " It was not always easy to make her out.
Walter had already made a start, and then stopped again. Here, outside the city, there was still some snow on the ground; white fields and between them, like dark water, black earth. The sun washed over everything equitably. Clarisse wore an orange jacket and a blue wool cap. The three of them were out for a walk, and Ulrich, in the midst of nature's desolate disarray, had to explain Amheim's writings to her. These dealt with algebraic series, benzol rings, the materialist as
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well as the universalist philosophy of history, bridge supports, the ev- olution of music, the essence of the automobile, Hata 6o6, the theory of relativity, Bohr's atomic theory, autogeneous welding, the flora of the Himalayas, psychoanalysis, individual psychology, experimental psychology, physiological psychology, . social psychology, and all the other achievements that prevent a time so greatly enriched by them from turning out good, wholesome, integral human beings. How- ever, Amheim dealt with all these subjects in his writing in the most soothing fashion, assuring his readers that whatever they did not un- derstand represented only an excess of sterile intellect, while the truth was always simplicity itself, like human dignity an~that instinct for transcendent realities within reach of everyone who lived simply and was in league with the stars.
"Plenty of people are saying thi~ kind of thing nowadays," Ulrich explained, "but Arnheim is the one whom people believe because they see him as a big, rich man who really knows whatever it is he is talking about, who has actually been to the Himalayas, owns automo- biles, and can wear as many benzol rings as he likes. "
Clarisse, prompted by a vague notion of carnelian rings, wanted to know what benzol rings looked like.
"You're a dear girl, Clarisse, all the same! " Ulrich said.
Walter came to her defense. "Thank heaven she doesn't have to understand all that chemical gobbledygook. " But then he proceeded to defend the works of Amheim, which he had read. He would not claim that Amheim was the best one could imagine, but he was still the best the present age had produced; this was a new spirit! Scien- tifically sound, yet. also capable of going beyond technical knowl- edge.
Thus their walk came to an end. The result for all of them was wet feet, an irritated brain-as though the thin, bare branches on the trees, sparkling in the winter sun; had turned to splinters stuck in the retina-a vulgar craving for hot coffee, and the feeling of human for- lornness.
Steaming snow rose from their shoes; Clarisse enjoyed the mess they were making on the floor, and Walter kept his femininely sensu- ous lips pursed the whole time, because he was itching to start an argument. Ulrich told them about the Parallel Campaign. When Amheim's name cropped up again the argument began.
"I'll tell you what I hold against him," Ulrich persisted. "Scientific man is an entirely inescapable thing these days; we can't not want to know! And at no time has the difference between the expert's experi- ence and that of the layman been as great as it is now. Everyone can see this in the ability of a masseur or apianist. No one would send a horse to the races these days without special preparation. It is only on the problems of being human that everyone feels called upon to pro- nounce judgment, and there's an ancient prejudice to the effect that one is born and dies a human being. But even if I· know that five thousand years ago women wrote the same love letters, word for word, that they write today, I can't read such letters any longer with- out wondering whether it isn't ever going to change! "
Clarisse seemed inclined to agree. Walter, however, smiled like a fakir preparing not to bat an eyelash while someone runs a hatpin through his cheeks.
"Meaning only, presumably, that until further notice you refuse to be a human being? " he broke in.
"More or less. It has an unpleasant feeling of dilettantism about it. "
"But I'll grant you something quite different," Ulrich went on after some thought. "The experts never finish anything. Not only are they not finished today, but they are incapable of conceiving an end to their activities. Even incapable, perhaps, of wishing for one. Can you imagine that man will still have a soul, for instance, once he has learned to understand it and control it biologically and psychologi- cally? Yet this is precisely the condition we are aiming for! That's the trouble. Knowledge is a mode of conduct, a passion. At bottom, an impermissible mode ofconduct: like dipsomania, sex mania, homici- dal mania, the compulsion to know forms its own character that is off-balance. It is simply not so that the researcher pursues the truth; it pursues him. He suffers it. What is true is true, and a fact is real, without concerning itself about him: he's the one who has a passion for it, a·dipsomania for the factual, which marks his character, and he doesn't give a damn whether his findings will lead to something human, perfect, or anything at all. Such a man is full of contradic- tions and misery, and yet he is a monster of energy! "
"And-? " Walter asked.
"What do you mean, 'And-? ' "
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"Surely you're not suggesting that we can leave it at that? "
"I would like to leave it at that," Ulrich said calmly. "Our concep- tion of our environment, and also of ourselves, changes every day. We live in a time ofpassage. It maygo on like this until the end ofthe planet if we don't learn to tackle our deepest problems better. than we have so far. Even so, when one is placed in the dark, one should not begin to sing out of fear, like a child. And it is mere singing in the dark to act as though we knew how we are supposed to conduct our- selves down here; you can shout your head off, it's still nothing but terror. All I know for sure is: we're galloping! We're still a long way from our goals, they're not getting any closer, we can't even see them, we're likely to go on taking wrong turns, and we'll have to change horses; but one day-the day after tomorrow, or two thou- sand years from now-the horizon will begin to flow and come roar- ing toward us! " ·
Dusk had fallen. "No one can see my face now," Ulrich thought. "I don't even know myself whether I'm lying. " He spoke as one does when making an uncertain snap judgment about the results of decades of certainty. It occurred to him that this youthful dream he had just unfurled for Walter had long since turned hollow. He didn't want to go on talking.
"Meaning," Walter said sharply, "that we should give up trying to make any sense of life? "
Ulrich asked him why he needed to make sense ofit. It seemed to be doing nicely without that, it seemed to him.
Clarisse giggled. She didn't mean to mock Walter; Ulrich's ques- tion had struck her as funny.
Walter turned on the light, as he saw no reason why Ulrich should exploit the advantage, with Clarisse, of being the dark man. An irri- tating glare enveloped the three of them.
Ulrich stubbornly expanded on his point: 'What one needs in life is merely the conviction that one's business is doing better than one's neighbor's. Your pictures, my· mathematics, somebody else's wife and children-everything that can assure a person that he is in no way unusual but that in this way of being in no way unusual he will not so easily flnd his equal! "
Walter had not yet sat down again. He was full of unrest. Triumph.
"Do you realize what you're talking about? " he shouted. "Muddling through! You're simply an Austrian, and you're expounding the Aus- trian national philosophy of muddling through! " ·
"That may not be as bad as you think," Ulrich replied. "A passion- ate longing for keenness and precision, or beauty, may very well bring one to prefer muddling through to all those exertions in the modern spirit. I congratulate you on having discovered Austria's world mission. "
Walter wanted to make some retort. But it turned out that the un- rest that had kept him on his feet was not only a sense of triumph but-how to put it? -also the need to leave the room. He hesitated between the two impulses, but they were irreconcilable, and his gaze slid away from Ulrich's eyes toward the door.
When they were alone, Clarisse said: "This murderer is musical. I mean . . . " She paused, then went on mysteriously: "I can't explain it, but you must do something for him. "
"But what can I do? "
"Set him free. "
"You must be dreaming. "
"You can't mean all those things you say tq Walter? " Clarisse
asked,· and her eyes seemed to be urging him to an answer whose content he could not guess.
"I don't know what you want," he said.
Clarisse kept her eyes stubbornly on his lips; then she came back to her point: "You ought to do what I said, anyway; you would be transformed. "
Ulrich observed her, trying to understand. He must have missed something-an analogy, or some "as if" that might have given a meaning to what she was saying. It sounded strange to hear her speaking so naturally without making sense, as though referring to some commonplace experience she had had.
But Walter was back. ''I'm prepared to admit-" he began. The interruption had taken the edge offthe argument.
He perched on his piano stool again and noticed with satisfaction some soil clinging to his shoes. "Why is there no dirt on Ulrich's shoes? '' he thought. "It's the last hope of salvation for European man. "
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But Ulrich was looking above Walter's shoes at his legs, sheathed in black cotton, with their unlovely shape of the soft legs of young girls.
"A man today who still aspires to integrity deserves a lot of credit," Walter said.
"There's no such thing anymore," Ulrich countered. "You only have to look in a newspaper. It's filled with an immeasurable opacity. So many things are being talked about, it would surpass the intellec- tual capacity of a Leibniz. But we don't even notice; we have changed. There's no longer a whole man confronting·a whole world, only a human something moving about in a general culture- medium. "
"Quite so," Walter shot back. "There is in fact no complete educa- tion anymore, in Goethe's sense. Which is why today every idea has its opposite. Every action and its opposite are accompanied by the subtlest arguments, which can be defended or attacked with equal ease. How on earth can you champion such a state ofaffairs? "
Ulrich shrugged. '
"One has to withdraw completely," Walter said softly.
"Or just go along," his friend replied. "Perhaps we're on our way
to the termite state, or some other un-Christian ~vision of labor. " Ulrich thought privately that it would be just as easy to agree as to argue. Contempt showed as clearly throughthe politeness as a tidbit in aspic. He knew that Walter would again be annoyed with what he had just said, but he was beginning to long for a conversation with someone with whom he could agree completely, for once. There had been a time when he and Walter had had such conversations: the words are drawn from the breast by some mysterious power, and not one word misses its mark. But when one talks with antipathy the words rise like fog froll). an icy plain. He looked at Walter without resentment, certain that Walter also felt that the further this conver- sation went the more it was deforming his inner convictions, but that he was blaming Ulrich for it. "Everything we think is either-sympathy or antipathy! " Ulrich thought. At this moment he was so vividly struck by the truth ofthis that he felt it as a physical pressure, like the bodily contact of people swaying in unison when they are jammed together. He looked around for Clarisse.
But Clarisse seemed to have stopped listening some time ago; at some point she had picked up the newspaper that had lain in front of her on the table and had begun asking herself why she found this so pleasurable. She feit herself looking at the boundless opacity Ulrich had spoken of before, with the paper between her hands. Her anns unfolded the darkness and opened out. Her anns formed two cross- beams with the trunk of her body, with the newspaper hanging be- tween them. That was the pleasure, but the words to describe it were nowhere within her. She knew only that she was looking at the paper without reading it, and that it seemed to her there must be some savage mystery inside Ulrich, a power akin to her own, though she could not pin it down. Her lips had opened as if she were about to smile, but it was unconscious, a loosening ofa still-frozen tension.
Walter continued in a low voice: "You're right when you say there's nothing serious, rational, or even intelligible left; but why can't you see that it is precisely this growing rationality, infecting ev- erything like a disease, that is to blame? Everyone's brain is seized with this craving to become more and more rational, to rationalize and compartmentalize life more than ever, but unable to imagine what's to become of us when we know everything and have it all analyzed, classified, mechanized, standardized. It can't go on like this. "
"Well," Ulrich said with composure, "when the monks were in charge, a Christian had to be a believer, even though the only heaven he could conceive of, with its clouds and harps, was rather boring; and now we are confro~ted with the Heaven of Reason, which re- minds us of our school days with its rulers, hard benches, and horri- ble chalk figures. " .
"I have the feeling there will be a reaction of an unbridled excess of fantasy," Walter added thoughtfully. There was a hint of coward- ice and cunning in this remark. He was thinking ofClarisse's mysteri- ous irrationality, and as he spoke of reason threatening to drive the irrational to excess he was thinking of Ulrich. The two others did not catch on, which made him feel, in triumph and pain, that they did not under$tand him. He would have loved to ask Ulrich not to set foot in this house so long as he stayed in town, if only he could have done so without provoking Clarisse to mutiny. ·
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The two men watched Clarisse in silence.
Clarisse suddenly noticed that they were no longer arguing; rubbed her eyes, and blinked amiably at Ulrich and Walter, who sat in the rays ofyellowlight against the dusky blue ofthe windowpanes like exhibits in a glass case.
55
SOLIMAN AND ARNHEIM
Meanwhile Christian Moosbrugger, the murderer of the young woman, had acquired yet another female admirer. The question of his guilt or his affliction had captured her heart a few weeks before as vividly as it had those of many others, and she had her own view of the case, which diverged somewhat from that of the court. . The name "Christian Moosbrugger" appealed to her, evoking a tall, lonely man sitting by a mill overgrown with moss, listening to the roar of the water. She firmly believed that the accusations against him would be cleared up in some entirely unexpected way. As she sat in the kitchen or the dining room with her needlework, a Moosbrugger who had somehow shaken off his chains would app~ar beside her-and wild fantasies spun themselves out. It was far from impossible that Chris- tian, had he only met Rachel in time, would have given up his career as a killer of girls and revealed himself as a robber chieftain with an immense future.
The poor man in his prison never dreamed of the heart that was beating for him as it bent over the m~ndingof Diotima's underwear. Itwas no great distance from the apartment ofSection ChiefTuzzi to the court building. From one roof to the other an eagle would have needed only a few wingbeats, but for the modem soul, which play- fully spans oceans and continents, nothing is as impossible as finding its way to ~oulswho live just around the comer.
And so the magnetic currents had. dissipated again, and for some
time Rachel had loved the Parallel Campaign instead of Moosbrug- ger. Even if things were not going as well as they might inside the reception rooms, a great deal was going on in the antechambers. Ra- chel, who had . always managed to read the newspapers that passed from her employer's quarters to the kitchen, no longer had the time, since she was standing from dawn to dusk as a small guard post in front of the Parallel Campaign. She loved Diotima, Section Chief T.
And since Diotima had announced ~at she intended to give Arn- heim a leading position in the Parallel Campaign, and had com- plained about His Grace's resistance to this idea, Tuzzi was seriously concerned. He did not think much of either the Parallel Campaign or Count Leinsdorf, but he regarded his wife's idea as politically so amazingly tactless that he was overcome with the feeling that all these years of patient husbandly training such as he flattered himself to have given her had collapsed like a house of cards. He had in fact used exacdy this figure of speech in thinking about it, even though Section Chief Tuzzi never indulged himself in figures of speech be- cause they are too literary and, socially, smell of poor taste; but this time he felt quite shaken by it.
Hqwever, Diotima strengthened her position again as things went on by her stubbornness, She had become gently aggressive and spoke of a new kind of person who could no longer passively leave the spiritual responsibility for the course of world events to the pro- fessional leaders. Then she spoke of feminine tact that could some- times be a visionary gift perhaps capable of penetrating distances beyond the daily routine of professionals. Finally, she said that Arn- heim was a European, a thinker known throughout Europe, that the conduct of affairs of state in Europe Was not sufficiendy European, not spiritual enough, and that the world would find no peace until it was as permeated by a universally Austrian spirit as the ancient Aus- trian culture that embraced all the peoples, with their different lan- guages, within the borders of the monarchy.
She had never before dared to stand up so resolutely against her husband's authority, but Section Chief Tuzzi was temporarily reas-
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sured by it, because he had never regarded his wife's strivings as higher in significance than problems with her dressmaker, was de- lighted when she was admired by others, and could now take a less alarming view of her current goings-on, much as if a woman who loved color had for once chosen too gaudy a ribbon. So he confined himself to going over again, with grave courtesy, all the reasons why in a man's world decisions on Austrian affairs could not be publicly entrusted to a Prussian, even though he could see that there might be some advantage in being on friendly terms with a man in so unique a position. He assured Diotima that she would be misunder- standing his scruples if she inferred from them that he was not pleased to see Arnheim in her company as often as possible. Privately he hoped that this would give him the opportunity, sooner or later, to set a trap for the outsider.
Only when Tuzzi had to stand by and see Arnheim sweeping from success to success everywhere did he come back to the idea that she seemed overinvolved with this man-only to fmd again that she did not respect his wishes as of old but argued with him and declared his misgivings chimerical. He decided as a man not to struggle against the dialectics of a woman but to bide his time and wait for circum- stances to prove him right in the end. But then something happened to give him a powerful incentive.
One night, something like the sound of very distant weeping aroused him from his sleep. It barely disturbed him at first; he si. mply did not understand what it was. But from time to time the spiritual distance lessened by a jump, until suddenly the menacing distur- bance was quite close to his ears, and he started so violently out ofhis sleep that he sat bolt upright in bed. Diotima lay on her side facing away from him and gave no sign ofbeing awake, but something made him feel that she was. He whispered her name once, then again, and tenderly tried to tum her white shoulder to him. But as he turned her around and her face rose above her shoulder in the dark, it looked at him angrily, expressed defiance, and had been crying. Un- fortunately, Tuzzi's sound sleep was reclaiming him and dragging him relentlessly back into his pillows, while Diotima's face hovered above him as a painfully bright distortion he could make no sense of. "Whatsamatter? " he muttered in the soft bass of returning uncon- sciousness, and received a clear, irritable, unwelcome answer that
stamped itself on his ear, fell into his drowsiness, and lay there like a sparkling coin in the water.
"You toss about so much in your sleep, no one can sleep next to you! " Diotima had said harshly and distinctly; his ear had taken it in, but he,had already slipped back into sleep without being able to utter a word in his own defense.
He merely felt that he was the victim of a grave injustice. Quiet, restful sleep was in his opinion one ofa diplomat's chiefvirtues, for it was a condition ofall success. It was a point on which he was acutely sensitive, and Diotima's remark was a serious challenge to his very existence. He realized that something in her had changed. While it never occurred to him even in his sleep to suspect his wife of any tangible infidelity, he never doubted for a moment that the personal discomfort inflicted on him must be connected with Arnheim. He slept on angrily, as it were, till morning and awakened with the finn resolve to find out all he could about this disturbing person.
THE HOUSE OF FISCHEL
Director Fischel ofthe Lloyd Bank was that bank director, or, more properly, managerwith the title ofdirector, who had somehow unac- countably forgotten to acknowledge Count Leinsdorf's invitation and had thereafter not been invited again. And even that first invita- tion he had owed only to the connections of his wife, Clementine. Clementine Fischel's family were old civil service. Her father had been Accountant General, her grandfather had been a senior official in the finance department, and three of her brothers held high posi- tions in various ministries. Twenty-four years ago she had married Leo Fischel, for two reasons: first, because families high in the civil service sometimes have more children than means; but second, for a romantic reason, because compared with the relentlessly thrifty
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tightness of her parental home, banking seemed a liberal-minded, modem profession, and in the nineteenth century a cultivated per- son did not judge another person's value according to. whether he was a Jew or a Catholic; indeed, as matters stood then, she almost felt there was something particularly refined in rising above the crude anti-Semitic prejudice of the common people.
Later the poor woman was destined to see a nationalist spirit well- ing up all over Europe, and with it a surge ofJew-baiting, transform- ing her husband in her very arms, as it were, from a respected free spirit into a corrosive spawn of an alien race. In the beginning she had resisted this transformation with all the indignation of a "mag- nanimous heart," but as the years passed she was worn down by the naively cruel and steadily growing hostility and intimidated by the general prejudice. In time, as 'the differences between herself and her husband gradually became acrimonious-when, for reasons he · would never quite go into, he never rose above the rank of manager and lost all prospects of ever being appointed a bank director-she came to justify to herself, with a shrug, many things that wounded her by remembering that Leo's character was; after all, alien to her own, though toward outsiders she never abandoned the principles of her youth.
Their differences, however, were basically nothing more than a lack of understanding; as in many marriages, a natural misfortune, as it were, surfaced as soon as the couple ceased to be rapturously happy. Ever since Leo's career had hesitantly ground to a halt at what was in effect a stockbroker's desk, Clementine was no longer able to excuse certain of his peculiarities by taking into account that he was not ensconced in the glassy calm of a ministerial office but was sitting at the "roaring loom of time"-and who knows whether she had not married him just on account of this quotation from Goe- · the? His side-whiskers, which, with the pince-nez riding the middle of his nose, had once reminded her of an English lord with mutton- chops, now suggested a stockbroker, and some of his mannerisms of gesture and turns of phrase became positively insufferable to her. At first Clementine tried to improve her husband, but she ran into terri- ble snags as it became apparent that nowhere in the world was there a standard by which to judge whether muttonchop whiskers rightly
suggested a lord or a broker, or at what point on the nose a pince- nez, combined with a wave of the hand, expressed enthusiasm o·r cynicism. Besides, Leo Fischel was simply not the man to let himself be improved. He dismissed as social tomfoolery the faultfinding that tried to tum him into the Christian-Teutonic beau ideal of a high ministry official, and rejected her ~guments as unworthy of a rea- sonable man; for the more his wife took offense at certain details, the more he stressed the great guidelines of reason. And so the Fischel household was gradually transformed into the battleground of two contending philosophies of life.
Director Fischel of the Uoyd Bank enjoyed philosophizing, but only for ten minutes a day. He enjoyed thinking that human life had a solid rational basis and that it paid off intellectually; he imagined this on the pattern ofthe harmonious hierarchy ofa great bank and noted with satisfaction the daily signs of progress he read about in the papers.
This faith in the immutable guidelines of reason and progress had for a long time· enabled him to dismiss his wife's carpings with a shrug or a cutting retort. But since misfortune had decreed that in the course of this marriage the mood of the times would shift away from the old principles ofliberalism that had favored Leo Fischel- the great guiding ideals of tolerance, the dignity of man, and free trade-and reason and progress in the Western world would be dis- placed by racial theories and street slogans, he eould not remain un- touched by it either. He started by flatly denying the existence of these changes, just as Count Leinsdorf was accustomed to deny the existence of certain "unpleasant political manifestations" and waited for them to disappear of their own accord. Such waiting is the first, almost imperceptible degree of the torture of exasperation that life inflicts on men of principle. The second degree is usually called, and was therefore also called by Fischel, "poison. " This poison is the ap- pearance, drop by drop, of new views on morals, art, politics, the family, newspapers, books, and social life, already accompanied by the helpless feeling that there is no turning back and by indignant denials, which cannot avoid a certain acknowledgment of the thing denied. Nor was Director Fischel spared the third and final degree, when the isolated showers and sprinklings of the New tum into a
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steady, drenching rain. In time this becomes one ofthe most horrible torments that a man who has only ten minutes a day to spare for phi- losophy can experience.
Leo came to know on how many points people can have differ- ences of opinion. The. drive to be right, a need almost synonymous with human dignity, began to. celebrate excesses in the Fischel household. For millennia this drive has produced thousands of admi- rable philosophies, works ofart, books, deeds, and partisan alliances, and when this admirable, but also fanatical and monstrous, innate human drive has to make do with ten minutes on practical philoso- phy or a debate on the basic principles of the household, it cannot fail to burst, like a drop of molten lead, into innumerable sharp splin- ters that inflict the most painful wounds. It burst over the question of whether a maid was to be given notice or not, and whether tooth- picks belonged on the table or not; but whatever made it burst, it had the capacity to reconstitute itself immediately into two infinitely de- tailed opposing vi·ews of the world.
This was all very well by day, since Director Fischel was in his of- fice then, but at night he was only human, and this gravely worsened the relations between him and Clementine. Things today are so com- plicated that a person can really keep fully informed only in one field, basically, which in . his case was stocks and bonds, and so he was in- clined at night to be of a generally yielding disposition. Clementine, on the contrary, remained sharp and unyielding, raised as she had been in a strict civil-service household with its constant emphasis on duty. Besides, her class consciousness would not permit them sepa- rate bedrooms, "-'hich would have made their already inadequate apartment even smaller: But a shared bedroom, with the lights out, puts a man in the situation of an actor having to play before an invisi- ble house the rewarding but by now worn-out role of a hero imper- sonating a growling lion. For years now, Leo's dark auditorium had not let slip the faintest hint of applause, nor yet the smallest sign of disapproval, and this was surely enough to shatter the strongest nerves. In the morning at breakfast, which the couple took together in accordance with time-honored tradition, Clementine was stiff as a frozen corpse and Leo twitchy with nerves. Even their daughter, Gerda, noticed something of this every time and had come to imag-
ine married life with dread and bitter loathing, as a catfight in the dark of night.
Gerda was twenty-three, and the favorite bone of contention of both her progenitors. Leo Fischel thought it was time to start think- ing of a good match for her. But Gerda said, "You're old-fashioned, Papa," and had chosen her friends in a swarm of Christian national- ists her own age, none of whom offered the slightest prospect of being able to support a wife; instead, they despised capitalism and maintained that no Jew had yet proved capable of serving as a great symbol of humanity. Leo Fischel called them anti-Semitic louts and would have forbidden them the house, but Gerda said, "You don't understand, Papa, they only mean it symbolically"; and nervous and anemic as she was, Gerda immediately got upset if she was not han- dled with care. So Fischel suffered her friends: society, as once Odysseus had had to suffer Penelope's suitors in his house, for Gerda was the ray of sunshine in his life. But he did not suffer in silence, because that was not in his nature. He thought he knew all about morality and great ideas himself, and held forth on them at every opportunity in order to exert a good influence on Gerda. Every time he did so Gerda answered: "Yes, Papa, you would be absolutely right if the whole thing did not have to be looked at from a wholly different point of view from the one you still cling to! "
What did Clementine do when Gerda talked like this? Not a thing. She made a resigned face and kept her own counsel, but Leo could be sure that behind his back she would be on Gerda's side-as if she knew what symbols wereJ Leo Fischel had always had every reason to assume that his good Jewish head was superior to his wife's, and noth- ing outraged him so much as to observe that she was using Gerda's craziness to her own advantage. Why should he, of all people, sud- denly no longer be capable of keeping up with the times? They were in this together! Then he remembered last night. This was no longer sniping at a man's self-esteem, it was digging it up by the roots! At night a man has only his nightshirt on, and right underneath that is his character. No expertise, no professional shrewdness, can protect him. Here a man stakes his whole life, nothing less. So what did it mean that Clementine, whenever the conversation turned to Christian- Germanic ideaS, made a face as if he were fresh from the jungle?
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Now, man is a being who can stand mistrust as little as tissue paper can the rain. Since Clementine had ceased to find Leo attractive she found him unbearable, and since Leo began to feel that Clementine doubted him he saw at every tum a conspiracy in his own house. At the same time Clementine and Leo deluded themselves, like every- one whose mind has been formed by the prevailing customs and lit- erature, that their passions, . characters, destinies, and actions made them dependent on each other. In truth, ofcourse, more than halfof life consists not of actions but of formulas, of opinions we make our own, of on-the-one-hands and on-the-other-hands, and of all the piled-up impersonality of everything one has heard and knowS. The fate of this husband and wife depended mostly on a murky, persist- ent, confused structuring of ideas that were not even their own but belonged to public opinion and shifted with it, without their being able to defend themselves against it. Compared with this depen- dence their personal dependence on each other represented only a tiny fraction, a wildly overestimated residue. And while they deluded themselves that they had their own private lives, and questioned each other's character and will, the agonizing difficulty lay in the unreality of their conflict, which they covered with every possible peevishness.
It was Leo Fischel's bad luck that he neither played cards nor found pleasure in taking out pretty girls, but, worn out by his work, suffered from a marked craving for family life, whereas his wife, who had nothing to do day or night but be the bosom ofthe family, was no longer subject to any 'romantic illusions about that. There were times when Leo Fischel felt he was suffocating, attacked by nothing he could put his finger ~nfrom all sides at once. He was a hardworking small cell in the body politic, doing its duty with a will, but receiving from all sides poisoned juices. And so, though it far exceeded his need for philosophy, the aging man, left in the lurch by his life-part- ner and seeing no grounds for abandoning the rational fashion of his youth, began to sense the profound emptiness of emotional life, its formlessness which is eternally changing its forms, its slow but re- lentless overturning that pulls everything with it.
It was on one such morning, his head occupied with family prob- lems, that Fischel had forgotten to answer His Grace's invitation, and on many subsequent mornings he had to listen to accounts of what
was going on in Section Chief Tuzzi's wife's circle, which made it appear most regrettable not to have seized such a chance for Gerda to enter the best society. Fischel's conscience was none too clear, since his own general manager and the chief executive of the Na- tional Bank attended those gatherings, but as everyone knows, a man will defend himself most violently against reproaches the more strongly he is tom between guilt and innocence. But every time Fischel tried, with all the superiority of a practical man, to make fun of these patriotic goings-on, he was advised that a financier who was abreast of the times, such as Paul Amheim, evidently thought other- wise. It was amazing how much C. lementine, and even Gerda-who normally, of course, took the opposite line from her mother's-had found out about this man, and as the stock exchange, too, was buzz- ing with all sorts of stories about him, Fischel felt driven onto the defensive, unable to keep up with them or to come out and say about so eminent a businessman that he was not to be taken seriously.
But when Fischel was on the defensive he adopted a suitably bear- ish stance, in this instance keeping up an impenetrable silence in the face of all allusions to the Tuzzi household, Amheim, the Parallel Campaign, and his own failure. He tried to find out where and how long Amheim was staying in town, and furtively hoped for an event that would at one blow expose the hollow pretense of it all and bring down his family's high rating of those stocks with a crash.
52
SECTION C:EUEF TUZZI FINDS A BLIND SPOT IN THE WORKINGS OF HIS MINISTRY
After he had decided to find out all about Amheim, Section Chief Tuzzi soon made the satisfying discovery of a large blind spot in the workings of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and of the Imperial House, which were his special concern: it had not been designed to
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deal with persons like Amheim. Other than memoirs, Tuzzi read no literary works but the Bible, Homer, and Rosegger, priding himself that this saved him from dissipating his mental forces. But that not a single man was to be found in the whole Foreign Ministry who had read a book of Aniheim's he recognized as an error.
Section Chief Tuzzi had the right to summon the heads of other departments to his own office, but on the morning after that night disturbed by tears, he had gone himself to see the chief of the press department, impelled by a feeling that the occasion which led him to seek a discussion did not warrant full official status. The chief of the press department admited Section ChiefTuzzi for knowing so many personal details about Amheim, admitted that he, too, had fre- quently heard the name mentioned, but promptly warded off any in- timation that the man . could possibly be found in any of his departmental files, since Arnheim had not, as far as he recalled, ever been the object of official consideration and since the processing of news material could not, of course, be extended to cover the public expressions of private individuals. Tuzzi conceded that this was as it should be, but pointed out that these days the borderline between the official and the private status of persons and events was not al- ways clearly definable, which the chief of the press department found a most acute observation, whereupon the two section chiefs agreed that they had before them a most intrigui~g flaw in the system.
It was clearly a morning on which Europe was enjoying a little peace and quiet, because the two officials sent for the head clerk and instructed him to start a file headedAmheim, Dr. Paul, though there was as yet nothing in it. Mter the head clerk came the chiefflle clerk and the clerk in charge ofnews clippings, both ofwhom were able to state on the spot, all aglow with efficiency, that no Amheim was to be found in their files. Finally the press secretaries were called in, whose job it was to go through the newspapers every day and lay their clippings before the various chiefs. When asked about Amheim they all made serious faces, and testified that he was indeed men- tioned often and most favorably in the·papers they read, but that they could not say what his writings were about because his activities-as they could immediately affirm-were not included within the sphere of their official concern with the news. Thus the flawless functi_oning
of the Foreign Ministry's apparatus was demonstrated whenever one touched a button, and all these officials left the room with the sense of having made the best show of their reliability.
"It's exactly as I told you;" the chief of the press department said to Tuzzi with satisfaction. "Nobody know~ a thing. "
The two section chiefs had listened to the reports with smiling dig- nity, sitting-as,if embalmed forever by their surroundings, like flies in amber-in luxurious leather armchairs, on the deep-pile red car- pet, framed by the tall windows draped in dark red in that white-and-· gold room dating from the time of Maria Theresa, and acknowledged that the blind spot in the system, which they now had at least spotted, would be hard to cure.
"In this department," its chiefsaid with satisfaction, "we deal with every public utterance, but a borderline must be drawn somewhere around the term 'public. ' I can guarantee that every 'Hear, hear' shouted by some deputy at one of this year's regional council meet- ings can be located in our files within ten minutes, and every such interjection made in the last ten years, as far as it concerns foreign affairs, within h~fan hour at most. The same applies to every politi- cal newspaper article; my men do painstaking work. :Sut those are tangible, so to speak responsible, utterances, in connection with well-defined conditions, powers, and concepts. However, if I have to decide, from a purely professional point of view, under which head- ing the clerk who compiles the excerpts or the catalog is to file some personal effusion by-let's see, whom could we use as an example? "
Tuzzi helpfully gave him the name of one of the latest writers to frequent Diotima's salon. The chief of the press department glanced up at him uneasily, as if he were hard of hearing.
"All right, him, let's say-but where do we draw the line between what to note and what to pass over? We've even had political poems. Does this mean that every versifier-or perhaps only authors who write for our Burgtheater . . . ? "
Both laughed.
"How is one to deduce what these people mean, even if they were Schiller and Goethe? Of course there's always a higher meaning in it, but for all practical purposes they contradict themselves with every second word they say. "
By this time the two men had become aware that they were run-
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ning the risk of becoming involved in something "impossible," a word with the added nuance of something socially ridiculous, to which diplomats are so keenly sensitive. ·
"Ofcourse we can't bring a whole staffofliterary and drama critics into the ministry," Tuzzi said with a smile, "but on the other hand, once we've become aware of it, there's no denying that such people are not without influence on world opinion and consequently do af- fect·politics. "
"It isn't done in any Foreign Office in the world," the press chief said helpfully.
"Agreed. But drop after drop will hollow out stone. " Tuzzi found that this proverb sexved nicely to express a certain danger. "Shouldn't we try to set up a way of handling this? "
"I don't know. I have qualms," the other section chief said.
"So do I, of course! " Tuzzi replied. As the conversation neared its end he felt ill at ease, as ifhis tongue were coated, uncertain whether he had been talking nonsense or whether it would turn out after all to be another instance of that perspicacity for which he was celebrated. The press chief was equally undecided, and so they ended by assur- ing each other that they would have another talk on the subject later.
The press chief issued insf? uctions to order Arnheim's complete works for the ministry library, by way of concluding the matter, and Tuzzi went to a political department, where he requested a detailed report on the man Arnheim from the Austrian Embassy in Berlin. This was the only thing left for him to do at the ·moment, and until the report arrived his only source of information about Arnheim was his wife, a source he now felt strongly disinclined to use. He recalled Voltaire's saying that people use words only to hide their thoughts and use thoughts only to justify the wrongs they have done. Cer- tainly, that is what diplomacy had always been. But that a person spoke and wrote as much as Arnheim did, to hide his . real intentions behind words, was something new; it made Tuzzi uneasy, and he would have to get to the bottom of it.
53
MOOSBRUGGER IS MOVED TO ANOTHER PRISON
The killer of a prostitute, Christian Moosbrugger, had been forgot- ten a few days after the newspapers stopped printing the reports of his trial, and the public had turned to other things for excitement. Only a circle of experts still took an interest in him. His lawyer had entered a plea to have the trial invalidated, demanded a new psychi-. atric examination, and taken other steps as well: the execution was indefinitely postponed and Moosbrugger moved to another prison.
The preca. utions with which this was done flattered him: loaded guns, many people, arms and legs in irons. They were paying atten- tion to him, they were afraid of him, and Moosbrugger loved it. When he climbed into the prison van, he glanced around for admira- tion and tried to catch the surprised gaze of the passersby. Cold Wind, blowing down the street, played with his curly hair; the air drained him. Two seconds; then a guard shoved his behind into the van.
Moosbrugger was vain. He did not like to be pushed like that; he was afraid that the . guards would punch him, shout or laugh at him. The fettered giant did not dare to look at any of his escort and slid to the front of the van of his own accord.
But he was not afraid of death. Life is full of things that must be endured, and that certainly hurt more than being hanged, and whether a man has a few years more or less to live really doesn't mat- ter. The passive pride of a man who has been locked up for long stretches would not let him fear his punishment; but in any case, he did not cling to life. What was there in life that he should love? Surely not the spring breeze, or the open road, or the sun? They only make a man tired, hot, and dusty. No one loves life who really knows it. "If I could say to someone," Moosbrugger thought, " 'Yesterday I had some terrific roast pork at the comer restaurant! ' that might be something. " But one cou,ld do without even that. What would have
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pleased him was something that could satisfy his ambition, which had always come up against nothing but stupid insults.
An uneven jolting ran from the wheels through the bench into his body. Behind the bars in the door the cobblestones were running backward; heavy wagons were left behind; at times, men, women, or children stumbled diagonally across the bars; a distant cab was gain- ing on them, growing, coming closer, beginning to spray out life as an anvil throws off sparks; the horses' heads seemed to be about to push through the door; then the clatter of hooves and the soft sound of rubber-tired wheels ran on past behind the wall of the van. Moos- brugger slowly turned his head back to stare again at the ceiling where it met the van's side in front ofhim. The noises outside roared, blared, were stretched like a canvas over which now and then flitted the shadow of something happening. Moosbrugger took the ride as a change, without paying much attention to its meaning. Between two dark, inert stretches in prison a quarter of an hour's opaque, white, foaming time was shooting by. This was how he had always experi- enced his freedom. Not really pretty. "That business about the last meal," he thought, "the prison chaplain," the hangmen, the quarter hour before it's all over, won't be too different. It will bounce along on wheels too; I'll be kept busy all the time·, like now, trying to keep from sliding off this bench at every jolt, and I won't be seeing or hearing much of anything with all those people hopping around me. It's the best thing that can happen: finally I'll get some peace.
"
A man who has liberated himself frof! l wanting to live feels im- mensely superior. Moosbrugger remembered the superintendent who had been his first interrogator at the police station. A real gent, who spoke in a low voice.
"Look here, Mr. Moosbrugger," he had said, "I beseech you: grant me success! " And Moosbrugger had replied, 'Well, ifsuccess means that much to you, let's draw up a statement. "
The judge, later on, was skeptical, but the superintendent had confirmed it in court. "Even if you don't care about relieving your conscience on your own account, please give me the personal satis- faction that you are doing it for my sake. " The superintendent had repeated this before the whole court, even the presiding judge had looked pleased, and Moosbrugger had risen to his feet:
"My deep respect to His Honor the superintendent for making
this statement! " he had loudly proclaimed, then added, with a grace- ful bow: "Although the superintendent's last words to me were W e will probably never see each other again,' it is an honor and a privi- lege to see you, the superintendent, again today. "
A smile of self-approval transformed Moosbrugger's face, and he forgot the guards sitting opposite him, flung to and fro like himselfby the jolting van.
54
IN CONVERSATION WITH WALTER AND CLARISSE, ULRICH TURNS OUT TO BE REACTIONARY
Clarisse said to Ulrich: "Something must be done for Moosbrugger; this murderer is musical! "
Ulrich had finally, on a free afternoon, paid them a visit to make up for the one so fatefully prevented by his arrest.
Clarisse was clutching at his lapel; Walter stood-beside her with a look on his face that was not quite sincere.
'What do you mean, musical? " Ulrich asked with a smile.
Clarisse looked merrily shamefaced. Unintentionally. As ifshe had to clap a tight comic grin on her face to hold back the embarrassment oozing from every pore. She let go of his lapel.
"Oh,'nothing special," she said. "You seem to have become an in- fluential man! " It was not always easy to make her out.
Walter had already made a start, and then stopped again. Here, outside the city, there was still some snow on the ground; white fields and between them, like dark water, black earth. The sun washed over everything equitably. Clarisse wore an orange jacket and a blue wool cap. The three of them were out for a walk, and Ulrich, in the midst of nature's desolate disarray, had to explain Amheim's writings to her. These dealt with algebraic series, benzol rings, the materialist as
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well as the universalist philosophy of history, bridge supports, the ev- olution of music, the essence of the automobile, Hata 6o6, the theory of relativity, Bohr's atomic theory, autogeneous welding, the flora of the Himalayas, psychoanalysis, individual psychology, experimental psychology, physiological psychology, . social psychology, and all the other achievements that prevent a time so greatly enriched by them from turning out good, wholesome, integral human beings. How- ever, Amheim dealt with all these subjects in his writing in the most soothing fashion, assuring his readers that whatever they did not un- derstand represented only an excess of sterile intellect, while the truth was always simplicity itself, like human dignity an~that instinct for transcendent realities within reach of everyone who lived simply and was in league with the stars.
"Plenty of people are saying thi~ kind of thing nowadays," Ulrich explained, "but Arnheim is the one whom people believe because they see him as a big, rich man who really knows whatever it is he is talking about, who has actually been to the Himalayas, owns automo- biles, and can wear as many benzol rings as he likes. "
Clarisse, prompted by a vague notion of carnelian rings, wanted to know what benzol rings looked like.
"You're a dear girl, Clarisse, all the same! " Ulrich said.
Walter came to her defense. "Thank heaven she doesn't have to understand all that chemical gobbledygook. " But then he proceeded to defend the works of Amheim, which he had read. He would not claim that Amheim was the best one could imagine, but he was still the best the present age had produced; this was a new spirit! Scien- tifically sound, yet. also capable of going beyond technical knowl- edge.
Thus their walk came to an end. The result for all of them was wet feet, an irritated brain-as though the thin, bare branches on the trees, sparkling in the winter sun; had turned to splinters stuck in the retina-a vulgar craving for hot coffee, and the feeling of human for- lornness.
Steaming snow rose from their shoes; Clarisse enjoyed the mess they were making on the floor, and Walter kept his femininely sensu- ous lips pursed the whole time, because he was itching to start an argument. Ulrich told them about the Parallel Campaign. When Amheim's name cropped up again the argument began.
"I'll tell you what I hold against him," Ulrich persisted. "Scientific man is an entirely inescapable thing these days; we can't not want to know! And at no time has the difference between the expert's experi- ence and that of the layman been as great as it is now. Everyone can see this in the ability of a masseur or apianist. No one would send a horse to the races these days without special preparation. It is only on the problems of being human that everyone feels called upon to pro- nounce judgment, and there's an ancient prejudice to the effect that one is born and dies a human being. But even if I· know that five thousand years ago women wrote the same love letters, word for word, that they write today, I can't read such letters any longer with- out wondering whether it isn't ever going to change! "
Clarisse seemed inclined to agree. Walter, however, smiled like a fakir preparing not to bat an eyelash while someone runs a hatpin through his cheeks.
"Meaning only, presumably, that until further notice you refuse to be a human being? " he broke in.
"More or less. It has an unpleasant feeling of dilettantism about it. "
"But I'll grant you something quite different," Ulrich went on after some thought. "The experts never finish anything. Not only are they not finished today, but they are incapable of conceiving an end to their activities. Even incapable, perhaps, of wishing for one. Can you imagine that man will still have a soul, for instance, once he has learned to understand it and control it biologically and psychologi- cally? Yet this is precisely the condition we are aiming for! That's the trouble. Knowledge is a mode of conduct, a passion. At bottom, an impermissible mode ofconduct: like dipsomania, sex mania, homici- dal mania, the compulsion to know forms its own character that is off-balance. It is simply not so that the researcher pursues the truth; it pursues him. He suffers it. What is true is true, and a fact is real, without concerning itself about him: he's the one who has a passion for it, a·dipsomania for the factual, which marks his character, and he doesn't give a damn whether his findings will lead to something human, perfect, or anything at all. Such a man is full of contradic- tions and misery, and yet he is a monster of energy! "
"And-? " Walter asked.
"What do you mean, 'And-? ' "
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"Surely you're not suggesting that we can leave it at that? "
"I would like to leave it at that," Ulrich said calmly. "Our concep- tion of our environment, and also of ourselves, changes every day. We live in a time ofpassage. It maygo on like this until the end ofthe planet if we don't learn to tackle our deepest problems better. than we have so far. Even so, when one is placed in the dark, one should not begin to sing out of fear, like a child. And it is mere singing in the dark to act as though we knew how we are supposed to conduct our- selves down here; you can shout your head off, it's still nothing but terror. All I know for sure is: we're galloping! We're still a long way from our goals, they're not getting any closer, we can't even see them, we're likely to go on taking wrong turns, and we'll have to change horses; but one day-the day after tomorrow, or two thou- sand years from now-the horizon will begin to flow and come roar- ing toward us! " ·
Dusk had fallen. "No one can see my face now," Ulrich thought. "I don't even know myself whether I'm lying. " He spoke as one does when making an uncertain snap judgment about the results of decades of certainty. It occurred to him that this youthful dream he had just unfurled for Walter had long since turned hollow. He didn't want to go on talking.
"Meaning," Walter said sharply, "that we should give up trying to make any sense of life? "
Ulrich asked him why he needed to make sense ofit. It seemed to be doing nicely without that, it seemed to him.
Clarisse giggled. She didn't mean to mock Walter; Ulrich's ques- tion had struck her as funny.
Walter turned on the light, as he saw no reason why Ulrich should exploit the advantage, with Clarisse, of being the dark man. An irri- tating glare enveloped the three of them.
Ulrich stubbornly expanded on his point: 'What one needs in life is merely the conviction that one's business is doing better than one's neighbor's. Your pictures, my· mathematics, somebody else's wife and children-everything that can assure a person that he is in no way unusual but that in this way of being in no way unusual he will not so easily flnd his equal! "
Walter had not yet sat down again. He was full of unrest. Triumph.
"Do you realize what you're talking about? " he shouted. "Muddling through! You're simply an Austrian, and you're expounding the Aus- trian national philosophy of muddling through! " ·
"That may not be as bad as you think," Ulrich replied. "A passion- ate longing for keenness and precision, or beauty, may very well bring one to prefer muddling through to all those exertions in the modern spirit. I congratulate you on having discovered Austria's world mission. "
Walter wanted to make some retort. But it turned out that the un- rest that had kept him on his feet was not only a sense of triumph but-how to put it? -also the need to leave the room. He hesitated between the two impulses, but they were irreconcilable, and his gaze slid away from Ulrich's eyes toward the door.
When they were alone, Clarisse said: "This murderer is musical. I mean . . . " She paused, then went on mysteriously: "I can't explain it, but you must do something for him. "
"But what can I do? "
"Set him free. "
"You must be dreaming. "
"You can't mean all those things you say tq Walter? " Clarisse
asked,· and her eyes seemed to be urging him to an answer whose content he could not guess.
"I don't know what you want," he said.
Clarisse kept her eyes stubbornly on his lips; then she came back to her point: "You ought to do what I said, anyway; you would be transformed. "
Ulrich observed her, trying to understand. He must have missed something-an analogy, or some "as if" that might have given a meaning to what she was saying. It sounded strange to hear her speaking so naturally without making sense, as though referring to some commonplace experience she had had.
But Walter was back. ''I'm prepared to admit-" he began. The interruption had taken the edge offthe argument.
He perched on his piano stool again and noticed with satisfaction some soil clinging to his shoes. "Why is there no dirt on Ulrich's shoes? '' he thought. "It's the last hope of salvation for European man. "
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But Ulrich was looking above Walter's shoes at his legs, sheathed in black cotton, with their unlovely shape of the soft legs of young girls.
"A man today who still aspires to integrity deserves a lot of credit," Walter said.
"There's no such thing anymore," Ulrich countered. "You only have to look in a newspaper. It's filled with an immeasurable opacity. So many things are being talked about, it would surpass the intellec- tual capacity of a Leibniz. But we don't even notice; we have changed. There's no longer a whole man confronting·a whole world, only a human something moving about in a general culture- medium. "
"Quite so," Walter shot back. "There is in fact no complete educa- tion anymore, in Goethe's sense. Which is why today every idea has its opposite. Every action and its opposite are accompanied by the subtlest arguments, which can be defended or attacked with equal ease. How on earth can you champion such a state ofaffairs? "
Ulrich shrugged. '
"One has to withdraw completely," Walter said softly.
"Or just go along," his friend replied. "Perhaps we're on our way
to the termite state, or some other un-Christian ~vision of labor. " Ulrich thought privately that it would be just as easy to agree as to argue. Contempt showed as clearly throughthe politeness as a tidbit in aspic. He knew that Walter would again be annoyed with what he had just said, but he was beginning to long for a conversation with someone with whom he could agree completely, for once. There had been a time when he and Walter had had such conversations: the words are drawn from the breast by some mysterious power, and not one word misses its mark. But when one talks with antipathy the words rise like fog froll). an icy plain. He looked at Walter without resentment, certain that Walter also felt that the further this conver- sation went the more it was deforming his inner convictions, but that he was blaming Ulrich for it. "Everything we think is either-sympathy or antipathy! " Ulrich thought. At this moment he was so vividly struck by the truth ofthis that he felt it as a physical pressure, like the bodily contact of people swaying in unison when they are jammed together. He looked around for Clarisse.
But Clarisse seemed to have stopped listening some time ago; at some point she had picked up the newspaper that had lain in front of her on the table and had begun asking herself why she found this so pleasurable. She feit herself looking at the boundless opacity Ulrich had spoken of before, with the paper between her hands. Her anns unfolded the darkness and opened out. Her anns formed two cross- beams with the trunk of her body, with the newspaper hanging be- tween them. That was the pleasure, but the words to describe it were nowhere within her. She knew only that she was looking at the paper without reading it, and that it seemed to her there must be some savage mystery inside Ulrich, a power akin to her own, though she could not pin it down. Her lips had opened as if she were about to smile, but it was unconscious, a loosening ofa still-frozen tension.
Walter continued in a low voice: "You're right when you say there's nothing serious, rational, or even intelligible left; but why can't you see that it is precisely this growing rationality, infecting ev- erything like a disease, that is to blame? Everyone's brain is seized with this craving to become more and more rational, to rationalize and compartmentalize life more than ever, but unable to imagine what's to become of us when we know everything and have it all analyzed, classified, mechanized, standardized. It can't go on like this. "
"Well," Ulrich said with composure, "when the monks were in charge, a Christian had to be a believer, even though the only heaven he could conceive of, with its clouds and harps, was rather boring; and now we are confro~ted with the Heaven of Reason, which re- minds us of our school days with its rulers, hard benches, and horri- ble chalk figures. " .
"I have the feeling there will be a reaction of an unbridled excess of fantasy," Walter added thoughtfully. There was a hint of coward- ice and cunning in this remark. He was thinking ofClarisse's mysteri- ous irrationality, and as he spoke of reason threatening to drive the irrational to excess he was thinking of Ulrich. The two others did not catch on, which made him feel, in triumph and pain, that they did not under$tand him. He would have loved to ask Ulrich not to set foot in this house so long as he stayed in town, if only he could have done so without provoking Clarisse to mutiny. ·
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The two men watched Clarisse in silence.
Clarisse suddenly noticed that they were no longer arguing; rubbed her eyes, and blinked amiably at Ulrich and Walter, who sat in the rays ofyellowlight against the dusky blue ofthe windowpanes like exhibits in a glass case.
55
SOLIMAN AND ARNHEIM
Meanwhile Christian Moosbrugger, the murderer of the young woman, had acquired yet another female admirer. The question of his guilt or his affliction had captured her heart a few weeks before as vividly as it had those of many others, and she had her own view of the case, which diverged somewhat from that of the court. . The name "Christian Moosbrugger" appealed to her, evoking a tall, lonely man sitting by a mill overgrown with moss, listening to the roar of the water. She firmly believed that the accusations against him would be cleared up in some entirely unexpected way. As she sat in the kitchen or the dining room with her needlework, a Moosbrugger who had somehow shaken off his chains would app~ar beside her-and wild fantasies spun themselves out. It was far from impossible that Chris- tian, had he only met Rachel in time, would have given up his career as a killer of girls and revealed himself as a robber chieftain with an immense future.
The poor man in his prison never dreamed of the heart that was beating for him as it bent over the m~ndingof Diotima's underwear. Itwas no great distance from the apartment ofSection ChiefTuzzi to the court building. From one roof to the other an eagle would have needed only a few wingbeats, but for the modem soul, which play- fully spans oceans and continents, nothing is as impossible as finding its way to ~oulswho live just around the comer.
And so the magnetic currents had. dissipated again, and for some
time Rachel had loved the Parallel Campaign instead of Moosbrug- ger. Even if things were not going as well as they might inside the reception rooms, a great deal was going on in the antechambers. Ra- chel, who had . always managed to read the newspapers that passed from her employer's quarters to the kitchen, no longer had the time, since she was standing from dawn to dusk as a small guard post in front of the Parallel Campaign. She loved Diotima, Section Chief T.
